


Like Glue

by paperclipbitch



Category: Sarah Jane Adventures
Genre: Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, SO MUCH FLUFF, Tea, it's the tenth anniversary of sarah jane adventures you guys, otp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-05 01:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12180147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: Clyde rolls his eyes.  “People on TV have Alexa, all perky and eager to help at the clearing of your throat.  Who do we have?  Picky McPickyFace.”“I’ve asked you to stop referring to me by a frankly dated meme,” Mr Smith says, voice tight and prim.





	Like Glue

**Author's Note:**

> Today (the 24th of September 2017) is the 10-year anniversary of _Sarah Jane Adventures_ first airing.
> 
> I thought it might be nice to celebrate one of my all time OTPs as they would be now.

“Have you moved since I left?” Luke asks, shoes kicked off by the door, coat hung up, keys in the dish, bag by the sofa. The same every day when he gets home from work, the backwards repetition of his morning routine.

“I made tea,” Clyde offers.

It’s getting dark outside, night crawled in while Luke was on the tube, and Clyde is silhouetted against the windows – the big ones he cooed over when they were flat-hunting, _look at all the light, Luke!_

“You made coffee,” Mr Smith pipes up.

Clyde rolls his eyes. “People on TV have Alexa, all perky and eager to help at the clearing of your throat. Who do we have? Picky McPickyFace.”

“I’ve asked you to stop referring to me by a frankly dated meme,” Mr Smith says, voice tight and prim.

Luke laughs as he walks over, drops his hands to Clyde’s shoulders. They’re tight under the soft worn cotton of his _Force Awakens_ t-shirt; even with his new drafting table, he has a habit of hunching.

“Alexa can’t identify incoming alien threats,” Luke points out. Living with the two of them periodically feels like trying to separate bickering siblings, or brawling cats; Mr Smith is now located not just in the attic of Luke’s mum’s house in Bannerman Road, but throughout all of their homes. Sky complains that Mr Smith reports home everything she does at uni – _mum, tell him he can’t set a curfew for me, he’s a computer programme!_ – and Rani struggles with pretending that he’s some kind of experimental Apple product in front of her housemates, but Maria says he makes her nostalgic for home, and Luke’s never known anything different. His whole life, with the mostly benign voice punctuating the world.

“Give it a couple of years,” Clyde murmurs, but there’s an amused twist to his voice.

“You drank half the coffee and then put your paintbrush in it by accident,” Mr Smith offers up, just a touch snide.

“He always does,” Luke replies, adds: “can you go on silent mode for a while?”

“Of course,” Mr Smith demurs, with that little fanfare Luke’s mum doesn’t let him get away with.

Luke digs his thumbs into Clyde’s shoulders, right into the knot he knows like an old friend by now. Clyde makes a soft noise, leaning back into him, and Luke looks down at what Clyde’s been working on today: an illustration for a children’s book, Clyde’s normally firm lines softened by watercolours. It’s a new direction for him, but the author contacted Clyde personally to ask him to collaborate, and Luke can tell that he’s enjoying the break from his normal work in comics and graphic novels.

“It’s looking good,” he says.

“You know it is,” Clyde replies, but there’s a pleased grin stretching across his face anyway.

Luke gives his shoulders one last squeeze and lets go. “I’ll make tea.”

He gets nearly three steps before Clyde says: “you know, every time I think we’ve got you pinned down as a real boy…” He laughs when Luke turns and glares. “Come on, we discussed this. The hardworking husband gets kisses.”

“Which of us is the hardworking husband?” Luke asks.

Clyde shrugs. “I mean, I’ve been here being creative while you’ve been a pen-pushing UNIT drone.”

“You know that’s not what I do all day,” Luke says, faux-stern. “And it’s not called UNIT anymore, the United Nations thing is still sticky.”

“You sound way too much like Mr Smith some days,” Clyde complains, but Luke shuts him up by kissing him; it’s not like they haven’t had that discussion a hundred times before. Well, thirty-eight and a half, anyway.

Luke is ten years old now, though Clyde asks him not to mention that too often because it makes him feel weird. Clyde is twenty-three, which is how old Luke looks, and isn’t. He’ll still never quite be a normal human, but normal comes on a sliding scale, and UNIT appreciate his analytical mind and practical experience with alien life forms. For the banal domestic side of his life, where he watches Netflix and eats Pringles and still can’t order a drink in Starbucks that doesn’t make Rani roll her eyes when she meets him for coffee after work – well, he has his family to help him through any residual hiccups.

For one thing, Sky seems to be doing much better at university than Luke ever did; at least if half the tattling Mr Smith does is to be believed.

Clyde pulls back eventually and says: “you said something about tea?”

“I’m going to get Mr Smith to set off alarms every three hours to remind you not to get caught up in working all day,” Luke threatens; he’s also been tinkering with a set of alarms he might be able to activate from his own workplace. Of the two of them, Clyde’s the more practical, but he has a tendency to get caught up in things that he loves.

He gets as far as putting the kettle on and digging out a couple of mugs – they feature dogs dressed as superheroes, and were Maria’s Christmas present to them last year – before Clyde trails into the kitchen.

“Oh, mum texted, she says we’re going over for dinner on Wednesday with the ‘or else’ part heavily implied,” he informs him, leaning against the sideboard while Luke rummages for a clean teaspoon. “I’m pretty sure she’s just got some more flatpack furniture she wants us to assemble.”

“You’re getting pretty good at it when you don’t lose half the screws,” Luke replies, teasing. 

“One time,” Clyde replies, screwing up his nose. “Oh, and _your_ mum texted,” he adds. “Our wedding present from Santiago finally turned up, it’s either vaguely alien or vaguely illegal or maybe both, she’s got it at her place and K-9 is losing his shit.”

At least ten years as a person have given him a reasonable grasp of idiom, Luke muses.

“His email did say it would get caught up in customs hell,” he remarks.

“He should’ve just got us crockery like everyone else did,” Clyde shrugs, “I’m making a small fortune on ebay.”

They’ve not been married that long; everything is still recent enough that Luke feels a little funny in his stomach when he gets to say _wedding_ or _husband_. They debated eloping at first, something quick and quiet, just to get something that had been brewing for most of their lives sorted. Then Sky pointed out that neither of their mums would ever forgive them, and they might as well accept that the whole thing was going to be ridiculous and overblown and crowded.

It _was_ weirdly crowded, actually; Luke suspects K-9 and Mr Smith of collaborating to get the invitations to go intergalactic – it’s not like Royal Mail does that, after all – and the people Luke and Clyde didn’t know, Sarah Jane did. Luke’s only seventy percent sure that the slim blonde woman at the back who smiled and blew a kiss and disappeared before the reception was who Clyde _swears_ she is, but he’d like his husband to be right. It’d be nice.

The kettle boils and Luke moves to make their tea before Clyde can ask him what he’s thinking and then accuse him of being sappy while looking fond.

“Great,” Clyde says happily, grabbing one of the mugs and dotting a clumsy kiss that vaguely hits Luke’s cheek. “C’mon, I’ll let you pick the Netflix category this time.”

Luke lets him go ahead so he won’t see the _definite_ sappiness in his smile, then picks up his mug and follows.

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't work it into the fic because it wasn't really relevant, but I'm pretty sure Clyde ships Finn/Poe like woah.


End file.
